


Louder Than Words

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, Heterosexual Sex, The Quidditch Pitch: Erotic Couplings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-21
Updated: 2007-09-21
Packaged: 2018-10-27 08:15:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10805274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: During the war, Harry and Hermione discover that they belong together.  Their spouses may not agree. (This is an older fic that I'm just now archiving here.)





	Louder Than Words

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

(Originally posted on December 3rd, 2005) 

This was written for someone who requested an affair fic... I have to admit that this was the most difficult fic I’ve ever written -- it was just so hard for me to imagine the circumstances under which Harry or Hermione would ever cheat on someone. 

 

* * *

  
  
  
He always found it strange that it had all started with something as ordinary as washing the dishes. Even at that moment, with her lying in his arms, their bodies spent and trembling on the twisted sheets in Sirius’ old bedroom in Grimmauld Place, it never ceased to amaze him. After all, were the events and relationships that changed your life supposed to have such humble beginnings?  
  
Nonetheless, that was how it had begun. A summer evening at the Burrow, the two of them standing side by side at the kitchen sink, washing the dishes from the dinner they had just finished with their boisterous extended family.  
  
Why had it changed for them that day? It hadn’t even been the first time they had done so. Ginny had often laughed at them for enjoying washing dishes the Muggle way. “Look at the two of you, the most powerful witch and wizard in England, up to your elbows in dirty water!” she would tease, flipping her shining red hair aside as she shook her head with a practiced impishness before giving her husband a kiss on the cheek. He would just smile tiredly at her before turning back to the sink, and he and Hermione would continue to quietly talk, a small moment of normality in their lives. Sometimes they spoke about the war, and about her research and his newest ideas for defensive spells. But most often they talked about all the small details that made up their lives, details so small that they never even thought to speak to Ron or Ginny about them. How Harry couldn’t sleep well at night, how Hermione’s hands would cramp after writing for so long, how each had laughed at Luna’s latest article in _The Quibbler_ , and how each had known that the other was laughing, too.  
  
Yes, everything they would talk about in hushed tones could only be called ordinary. Even they way they would laugh quietly at each other’s stories would only be seen as their ordinary way, if anyone had ever bothered to watch them.   
  
He sighed and stroked her wild, untamable hair as he remembered those conversations gone by. Ordinary and remarkable at the same time. He could now see how those weekly moments were like a cocoon for him, a moment of time suspended and frozen and locked away from the war and from fear and from solitude. A solitude that went deep into his soul, regardless of how loud a house full of Weasleys—and Weasleys by marriage—could be.  
  
Those evenings had become their weekly ritual, one that had started almost immediately after they had married Ron and Ginny, soon after Ginny had finished her seventh year. When exactly it was that he had started to actively look forward to those moments with the two of them alone at the kitchen sink, he didn’t know. Was it the same time that Ginny’s constant flirty laughter and coy teasing had ceased to be charming and had instead become grating? Was it the same time that he noticed that Ron—the Order’s chief strategist—had become increasingly bitter and dark? Was it the same time that he had noticed how Hermione’s lips would thin and her jaw would tighten every time Ron made a biting comment about her constant research into Dumbledore’s old journals? Was it the same time that he had realized how Hermione’s hair and skin radiated an herbal freshness that begged him to close his eyes, just so that he could concentrate on her scent?  
  
Whenever it had started exactly, he didn’t know. Maybe it had always been there, this _need_ to be near her. Had they ever been apart, _really_ , ever? He had needed her as a friend, as a fighter, as a pillar of strength. But through those Sunday evenings spent in the kitchen, side by side and hip by hip, he had come to realize that he just needed _her_. The way she understood him... the way she could just look at him and know what he was trying to say, even if he didn’t know the words... the way her smile made him feel like the hero everyone was always telling him that he was. And when their Sunday dinners would have to be canceled—because of Order meetings or raids or the countless other reasons that the war always provided—he _felt_ her absence. Felt it so deeply it seemed actually to cut at him.  
  
Harry lifted his head from the pillow to better gaze upon her body, her leg thrown carelessly over his thigh. He grasped her hand, bringing it to his lips, planting a kiss on her palm. He loved her hands, so graceful and yet still strong and capable. As he brought his lips over the pads of her fingertips, he thought about that moment when it had truly changed between them. It hadn’t been planned, and he had been as surprised as she was. Their hands submerged under the soapy water... her brown eyes sparkling as he quietly told her an anecdote from his training session with Moody... his own eyes fixed on her face, memorizing how her nose crinkled when she was trying to keep from laughing... him trying to conceal how pleased he was to elicit her quiet chuckles.   
  
And so he could remember exactly how her eyes had opened slightly when he had inadvertently placed his hand on top of hers in the warm water of the big farmhouse sink. And how she had wavered slightly when he didn’t let go immediately. Instead, he had stood frozen in place for only a moment before pressing her hand down against the bottom of the sink with his own, his palm covering her hand. And how her eyelids had fluttered shut and how she had exhaled when he began to circle his thumb along the side of her hand. And he would never forget how her body slightly trembled when he had let his fingers firmly settle between her own, rubbing them back and forth, sliding in and out, in and out, amongst the grooves of her fingers. He would never forget, for his own body had felt as if an electrical storm was raging under his skin.  
  
He hadn’t been able to tear his gaze away from her face, transfixed by how her features had softened and her cheeks had flushed and her lips had parted slightly as he continued to touch her. First, simply lifting her hand amidst the soap bubbles and turning it over and running his fingers lightly along her palm, his fingertips teasing her skin in light circles and spirals. When she had visibly shivered, her eyes still closed, he felt a rush of desire shoot through him, all to be concentrated in the nerve endings of his fingertips, and he was sure that he had never been so aware of his own body as he was at that moment.  
  
Then, the door leading into the kitchen from the side garden had suddenly banged open with the twins running in, followed by Ron and Ginny. And before Hermione had a chance to jump away from him, before she had a chance to make any ridiculous excuses, he had firmly grasped her hand in his, squeezing it—almost painfully tight—so that she looked into his face; confusion, bewilderment and embarrassment all fighting each other in her expression. Until... until she saw none of these in his own face. Only resolve. He held onto her hand the entire time Ron and Ginny stayed in the kitchen, neither brother nor sister observant enough to realize how no dishes were actually being washed, or how still their spouses stood at the sink.  
  
From that moment forward, he began to think of each day of the week only in terms of how far he was from Sunday evening. For those few moments where he felt complete doing something as simple as washing the dishes.   
  
As the memory played itself out in his mind, Harry placed her hand on his chest and let his hands roam over her bare back, smooth and still warm and glistening from their earlier lovemaking. Hermione’s skin seemed to almost burn under his fingers and she lifted her head to gaze at his face. He could see everything in those eyes, for he knew her like no other. Even back then, when he was just beginning to lose himself in his daily daydreams of her, waiting, he knew her well enough to know that she had felt the same way. That she too had longed for those few moments every week when they could talk to one another in a way they couldn’t talk to anyone else. When they could touch each other without anyone realizing what was happening. When he could pretend to sweep soapy bubbles from her nose, or brush her long hair behind her ears. And she could run her fingers along his own, and giggle oh-so-slightly when his glasses were splattered with water, allowing her to take them off and clean them, and then carefully slide them back onto his face.  
  
But now, in the creaking old bed, she saw the pain in his eyes, and knew he was remembering. She frowned, because she knew that the pain and self-recriminations would soon follow. It was what always happened after. He gently stroked her face, and moaned softly as she pulled herself on top of him, kissing him with the passion that only he was able to ignite within her. He let his hands wrap around her body, pushing away the certain knowledge that they couldn’t stay in this room forever. After all, that had always been their problem: being too close and yet not close enough. Even when they had been playing their little games at the kitchen sink, he had known that it couldn’t stay like that. They were too connected—they always had been, even if Harry hadn’t known it before—to be content with such half-measures. Her hand touching his wasn’t enough. Simply watching her mouth wasn’t enough.   
  
He knew that he hadn’t been happy with Ginny soon after their marriage, but he had thought it was something that he could accept. At first he had thought it was because they had married too young, or because of the strains of the war, or the stresses of living with her family, or for a hundred other small reasons, and that eventually it would work itself out. But all too soon, every time Ginny laughed loudly at one of his stories, he couldn’t help but feel that her merriment rang falsely in his ears. Every time they would go to a meeting of the Order, and afterwards, when they would socialize with some of the members, and she would be the center of attention, telling stories loudly and making fun of the people they knew, he couldn’t help but inwardly cringe. And every time Molly asked when they would be giving her some grandchildren, he couldn’t force himself to look at Ginny’s face.  
  
Ginny knew _something_ was wrong, of course; she wasn’t stupid. But she was skilled at deluding herself, he knew that for a fact. She dismissed his grim moments as natural effects of the war. She told herself that he didn’t _want_ to talk about the things that bothered him, that it was just the way he was, and that _that_ was why he had married her, after all; so that he could just be _normal_ , with a normal wife and a normal family. It couldn’t have had anything to do with _her_. After all, they had been in love for forever. _Everyone_ could see how perfect they were for each other.  
  
And he had believed it at one time, too. Believed that all he needed to be happy was to forget all the bad times. Believed that by keeping Ginny away from the darker parts of his life he was protecting her and their relationship. And so they had married as soon as possible. And he had moved into the Burrow, for she had declared Grimmauld Place to be full of “baggage.” And she refused to let Ron or the twins talk about the war when they had the rare family meal together. Because that was how normal people lived their lives: with laughter and jokes and no references to the pains and horrors that lay just down the road.  
  
But all too soon, he had come to know better. He finally understood that all the pain of his life had made him into the person he was. He couldn’t magically become someone else, and he no longer even wanted to ignore his past, all of the history and circumstances that had helped shape him. What Ginny dismissed as his “moodiness” was a part of him, not something to be ignored in the hopes that it would suddenly disappear, but accepted so that he could finally become the man that he hoped he could be. But also, he had figured out that his occasional forays into bleakness were in part due to frustration. Frustration with the naive choice he had made in marrying her. Frustration with himself, for not thinking things through when he still had options. Frustrations with _her_ for being so willing to live in a world filled with half-truths and hope and denial all mixed together in cauldron ready to bubble over. And frustration that the one woman who would have understood, who had _always_ understood, was married to his best friend.  
  
“Harry,” Hermione whispered in between her deep kisses, bringing him back to the present. “Don’t think about that, just think about _now_.” She took a moment to look into his eyes before kissing him again, and he groaned into her mouth as she took his very soul, as well as his breath, away with her lips and tongue and soft sighs. He let his hands feel her wetness and she let out a deep, guttural wail as his fingers dipped inside of her, his cock throbbing against her silky belly as she began to writhe on top of him.  
  
His mind was split in time, his memories unstuck between moments, moments all centered on Hermione and feeling the warmth of her body and the fire of her soul. As she came undone around his fingers, moaning his name over and over, he could not help but remember the first time he had brought her to climax, flashes of the past colliding with his present. They had been teetering on the edge for far too long when it finally happened, late at night in the library at Grimmauld Place. The old house had become even lonelier after Dumbledore’s death, with only Harry, Hermione and Remus ever making occasional visits to retrieve items or do research in its library. But that night, Harry hadn’t even noticed the house’s gloom and oppression, for they were alone. Truly alone. He had stood behind her, leaning slightly so that he could smell her hair as she reached up on tip toes for a book. Straining to reach it, she had sighed and snapped, “You _could_ help me, you know,” before turning around to find him inches from her, still leaning over her, his eyes fixed upon her lips.  
  
And so he had simply closed the small gap that had remained between them and crushed her to him, his mouth covering hers, his hands everywhere; on her back, waist, hips and ass. Her own hands were as frantic, digging into his unruly hair, pulling him ever closer as her tongue welcomed his own into her mouth.  
  
Rational thought had left them both, as the lust that had been hanging over them finally exploded. He pushed her against the book shelves, letting his mouth roam over her neck and collarbone as his hands worked their way under her skirt to yank her knickers off. Hermione moaned loudly even as she lifted her thigh onto his hip, and placed her own hand over his, guiding him as he explored her heat and wetness.  
  
She had come quickly, his name on her lips as his long fingers had stroked her hard and fast, rubbing her clit and plunging inside of her, her own fingers entwined with his.  
  
His mind came crashing back to the present as Hermione moved so that she was straddling him, her wet cunt positioned above his throbbing cock. His eyes narrowed in a lust-filled haze. She was a goddess to him, her heat able to bring him to a fervor he had never known he was capable of before she had unlocked his soul. She quickly guided him inside of her and began to slowly ride him, moving her hips back and forth. She knew he loved to see her like this, her slim body a living sheath for his cock. She was like a beautiful, untamed animal to him, and he knew that no matter what happened, he was the only man who would ever see her like this, utterly consumed by desire.   
  
Even that first time, Harry had known that she had saved herself for him. Saved her passion—her very soul—for him, as he had for her. Even before she had come down from the climax he had brought her to, she had forcefully pushed him onto the ground and practically ripped his clothes away from him. His own hands had been as wild, pulling her shirt and bra off as he rolled her beneath him so that he could lick and suck at her firm breasts. He had groaned at the taste of her, at feeling her nipple pebble and harden under his tongue, and she had writhed at every suckle, even wrapping her legs around him, grinding herself against him as she wantonly moaned under him.  
  
He had not fought her when she grasped onto his hair and pulled his face to hers for a bruising, ravaging kiss, one that was only broken by her scream as he entered her, filling her with his own hard heat. He had thrust into her hard, pushing her thighs up so that her ankles were on his shoulders. He yelled her name over and over into the darkness of the room in a frenzy of lust. She had been as possessed as him, her eyes glazed as she had screamed, begging him to stay inside of her forever, to fuck her forever, as he pumped into her again and again. A possessiveness that he had never known he was capable of had coursed through his body as he attempted to brand her as his from the inside out.  
  
In a fever, he had pulled her legs down and pushed her thighs as far apart as he could, so that he could be in her as deeply as possible. No one would touch her the way he would, he had growled to her. He had known it was true. He knew that Ron would never be in her like he would. That Ron would never be able to claim her. She belonged to him. She had screamed his name one more time before her orgasm had hit her, her body convulsing around him, and his own body reacted as he came harder than he ever had before.  
  
If he had ever harbored hopes that they just needed to “get it out of their system,” and could then go back to what they had before, such hopes had been completely destroyed once he had actually been with her. As they had lain on the musty rug of the library floor, each had known that something had just begun. It couldn’t end. Not then. Maybe not ever. She was his.  
  
“You’re mine,” Hermione panted, as she moved on top of him on the bed, her hands on his chest as she looked fiercely into his eyes as she lifted her hips up and down, slowly, tortuously. That day in the library quickly faded away in his mind, to join all the other memories... The day that he had bent her over the table in the broom shed at the Burrow. The night she had pulled him into an alley in Hogsmeade and fucked him with her mouth and tongue, the darkness not cover enough to hide his shouts of pleasure. All the times they had met at the Shrieking Shack, almost violent in their need for each other. And then, of course, were all the quickly stolen moments. When in a dark corner he would simply grab her to him, holding her so tightly that she practically _became_ him, and he would whisper her name over and over into her ear, each time her name a prayer. Or when they would sit next to each other for a quick meal, and their hands and fingers would meet under the tablecloth for just seconds at a time. Or, as was their custom, when they would wash the dishes, their heads together, whispering, always whispering.  
  
“You’re mine,” she repeated, as her movements became increasingly wild. “Say it, Harry. Say it to me.”  
  
“I’m yours,” he answered, groaning as she began to move on him faster and harder, the sounds of their skin slapping together exciting him further. “You know I’m yours, I always was, I always will be,” he muttered as he grasped onto her hips, helping her lift herself up so that she could slam down onto him, again and again.  
  
“Yesssss,” she hissed, throwing her head back as she gave herself over to the passion that was building inside of her. God, how he loved to watch her in these moments, when the only thing that mattered to her was him, him inside of her, him bringing her pleasure. “Harry... mine... you’re mine...” she moaned as she gave over to her lust, throwing her head back, eyes closed as she ran her hands over her breasts and belly and clit, stroking and pinching and rubbing her skin as she rode him in earnest, his strong hands helping to guide her hips faster and harder.  
  
And she felt so bloody _good_ to him, her wet heat surrounded him and intoxicated him to the point that he wished he could be inside of her forever. As she squeezed her muscles around him he knew that he could last no longer and shouted her name as he came, his need echoing in the room. As the last of his orgasm emptied into her, she stiffened and came with a silent scream, convulsing around him for what seemed like an eternity before she fell against his chest.  
  
And so they lay there, panting and murmuring in each other’s ears, against each other’s skins. As they always did. And Harry wrapped his arms around her, tightening his hold on her as he always did. Kissing the top of her head when she began to cry as she always did.  
  
“Hermione,” he whispered against her wild hair, “Sweetheart, please don’t cry. You’ll have me doubting my skills.”  
  
Hermione chuckled even as she cried, and he knew that the small laugh was to let him know that she appreciated his words, more than as a statement on his rather lame attempt at a joke. As she looked up at him, he swept her hair away from her forehead, laying a kiss on the warm skin.   
  
“I know you’re going to say that this is all wrong,” he began, his voice soft. It was what they always spoke about, when they had time, afterwards. They both suffered from the guilt of what they were doing, but neither could stop. Harry always thought, deep inside, that Ginny would bounce back if he left her; she had a certain knack for finding a man to help her. But Ron? Neither of them ever said so, but they knew that he would rage, that he would never forgive them. And the problem was that Hermione loved him. Sure, she wasn’t _in love_ with him, but she loved him. Harry knew that. He knew that she never would have married him if she hadn’t.  
  
And, to be honest, the Order couldn’t risk losing Ron over personal issues. He was too important, his strategic skills were vital in the constant battles against Voldemort. Ron had already changed so much over the years, from the laughing, immature and joking best friend of their youth into a brooding and sometimes despondent man. Harry was sometimes actually afraid of how Ron’s bitterness would manifest itself if he ever discovered the truth about them, or if Hermione were to ever leave him.  
  
Love and hate were mingled in Harry’s heart whenever he thought about Ron. Two emotions that didn’t belong together, especially in regard to your best friend.  
  
And so Hermione surprised him by shaking her head. “No,” she said, her voice so soft that he had to strain to hear her. “That’s not why I’m crying,” she replied, her eyes luminous with tears. “I’m crying because for the first time, I truly don’t care if this is wrong or not. I don’t care if people are hurt. Not anymore. All I care about is you and me and what we deserve. I was just thinking that everyone else can go to hell,” she whispered, her frightened tone at odds with her words. Fresh tears spilled out from her eyes, and Harry’s chest tightened as he gently wiped them away. She pulled away from his arms to sit up on the bed, pulling her knees up to her chin. She looked so forlorn and beautiful Harry thought that his heart might literally break from looking at her. “And I’m crying because I don’t _want_ to feel like that. What kind of person am I turning into?”   
  
He knew that there was little he could say. And he knew that she just needed to know that he was a part of her, that he would stand by her no matter what happened. That they were _together_. So he just sat up and gathered her into his arms, holding her and stroking her hair as she wept against his shoulders.   
  
When he could sense that she had cried all her tears, he pulled at her arm, bringing her up from the bed and into the bathroom. He ran the taps and then gently pulled Hermione in after him under the spray of hot water. No words were spoken, and Harry knew it was not because they were uncomfortable, or even because of unhappiness. But because they weren’t necessary.   
  
He lathered her hair and smiled when she closed her eyes and sighed loudly as he massaged her scalp and ran his fingers through her tresses. When her hair was thoroughly rinsed, she turned her attention to him, carefully running the soapy washcloth over his limbs, giving a small grin as the water sluiced down the hard planes of his body.  
  
And, as they both knew would happen, he kissed her, the sensations of her warm lips and hot water and her soapy body stirring him to renewed passion. She twined her fingers around his neck and opened her mouth to him, her breath and tongue welcoming him into her.  
  
She pressed her body against his and reached down between them, to stroke his already semi-hard cock. He groaned as his body reacted to her touch, amazed as always that she could bring him so quickly to passion, even after their earlier wildness.  
  
He turned her so that her back was against the tiled wall, and lifted her so that she was able to brace herself, placing her feet on the rim of the other side of the bathtub, with his hips squarely planted between her thighs, his cock teasing at her entrance. With his hands on her hips, her hands on his shoulders, their eyes locked onto each other’s, he entered her slowly.   
  
With the only sound being the constant pattering of the shower, they moved together in a silence only occasionally broken by a sigh or moan ripped from their throats. He lifted and lowered her onto his cock, harder and faster, and she would squeeze her muscles tight around him on each upstroke, causing him to bite his lip. Still staring into his eyes, she smiled. A smile so sad and gentle that it was the most lovely thing he had ever seen. “Don’t hold back, Harry,” she whispered. “You never need to hold back with me. You can always tell me anything.”  
  
“I know,” he whispered back. And brought his lips to hers, telling her everything that was in his heart—his fears, his hopes, his need. In her kiss he felt the same emotions, plus one more... acceptance. Acceptance of everything that he was, acceptance of every bond that they shared, acceptance of every consequence that would come their way.  
  
As they broke their kiss, and he continued to move inside of her, harder and deeper, she tightened her grip on his shoulders, her deep brown eyes darkening with passion as she approached the edge.   
  
“Don’t hold back,” he murmured, echoing her own words, keeping his gaze fixed on her face. When she came, her body shuddering, he was sure that—more than anything else— _this_ was what he was meant to do: to love this woman for the rest of his life. To be a hero, to defeat Voldemort, all the rest of it was nothing compared to the fact that he could make her happy, that he could hold her when she was afraid, that he could see her in tears and in ecstasy. As his orgasm rushed over him, he knew with a keen clarity that the reason that she was his was because he was _made_ for her. How could they continue to deny what was meant to be?  
  
As they stayed locked together, his forehead resting amidst her wet hair, they each took deep breaths, trying to calm the rush of their heartbeats. Finally, he set her feet down on the floor of the tub, placing another kiss on her lips. As they dried and dressed, the silence wrapped around them, comforting them with the knowledge that they were in agreement. There would be anger. There would be accusations. Their friends would take sides. Would _any_ Weasley ever talk to the two of them again? But he knew that the truth was worth it. Being with her for the world to see was worth it.  
  
He walked next to her as they went down the creaking flight of stairs and out of the gloomy darkness of the hidden house into the bright sunlight of a brisk winter afternoon. As they stood on the sidewalk, facing one another, he took her hands in his, squeezing gently. They were outside, where anyone could see them, and no passer-by could mistake that they were two people who belonged together. But... it would be up to her. He could not _make_ her leave him. He let her see his hope and resolve. No matter what she decided, she would at least know what it was that he wanted. “Yes?” he asked, knowing she did not need more than that one word.  
  
“Yes,” she answered, knowing that one word was all he needed.  



End file.
